


Everything That Dies

by murron



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-21
Updated: 2010-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-06 12:57:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murron/pseuds/murron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Events in Detroit leave Castiel with few choices and a hard decision</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything That Dies

**Author's Note:**

> **Spoilers: Up to 5x10**  
> Standard disclaimers apply.

 

Don't feel too bad, Sam. There's only five things in all of creation  
that gun can't kill, and I just happen to be one of them.  
_Abandon All Hope_

____________________

 

 

 

The lighthouse is off the beaten track, a windswept place on some nameless cliffs. The rundown restaurant that huddles in its shadow has been deserted for years, there’s a hole in the roof and dust covering the leftover furniture. Seagulls roost in the rafters.

Down in the former dining area, Castiel sits on a chair, straight-backed with his hands on his knees. Dust-motes dance in the sunlight filtering through the dirty windows, some of them catching in his hair.

Across the room, Dean lies on a cot, arm thrown over his stomach, fast asleep. He’s still fully clothed, hasn’t even taken off his boots. It has always eluded Castiel why Dean prefers to sleep like this. The custom seems to demand a change of clothes before turning in. They have come a long way, however, and Castiel long since abandoned the need to understand and settled for appreciation.

He’s only watched Dean sleeping once and he’d been restless then, haunted by nightmares of perdition. This time, Dean rests deeply, no dreams at all. He looks impossibly young this way, not a care showing on his face. It makes Castiel wonder about Heaven’s indifference and Hell’s malice. If the others took the time to watch these humans sleep, would destroying them still seem such an idle thing to do?

Driven by curiosity, Castiel would have liked to sit closer, watching Dean’s chest rise and fall from the edge of the bed. But he understands people’s need for personal space and so he keeps the appropriate distance.

Dean wakes suddenly, taking a deeper breath before opening his eyes. It’s obvious his surroundings confuse him. As he looks around, his hand flails for a weapon until he catches sight of Castiel.

“Christ,” Dean groans, dropping back onto the cot and covering his face with his hands. “What time is it?”

“I presume it is later than six,” Castiel answers and, on seeing Dean’s look, adds, “I don’t wear a watch.”

Dean snorts, runs his hands back through his hair and sits up. As if someone pulled a curtain, the usual weariness has fallen back over his features. “Where’s Sam?” he wants to know.

Castiel cocks his head, looking over at the restaurant’s door. “Don’t you know?” he asks. “He’s with Bobby, picking up the last ingredients for the binding ritual.”

“Right.” Dean takes another look around and Castiel knows he tries to remember how they got here. “So what’s this? Couples retreat?”

“It’s a way station,” Castiel explains. “We decided to ‘catch our breath’ before we head out to Detroit. Don’t you …”

“Yeah I remember,” Dean interrupts, frowning. “I’m just not sure if I remember the right things.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Not especially.”

Castiel nods. “Fair enough.”

A little aimlessly, Dean wanders over to the window and rubs a clean circle into the dirt. Castiel knows what’s on his mind even without tapping into his thoughts. Above all, Castiel is a keen observer and over the last year, he has learned to decipher Dean’s body language. The knowledge helps, because Dean’s the one human whose stubborn logic and sudden windfalls of emotion confuse Castiel instead of solving a riddle for him. Listening to Dean think is like predicting the trajectory of raindrops on a windowpane. It’s ineffable and fascinating but the way Dean moves, his shape and size have become familiar.

Castiel watches Dean scratch his jaw and pull out his cell-phone only to find that it has no reception out here. Dean stares out the window, no doubt thinking about what might happen in Detroit, anxious, yes, but still clinging to that shred of hope just like a human would: Some part of him believing to the last that the odds will turn miraculously to their favour. It opens another fissure in Castiel’s hybrid soul. Cut off from heaven, he’s sunk so deep into his vessel, the human part of him echoes his feelings and vice versa. Some of the heartbreak is Jimmy’s, but most of the pain belongs to Castiel.

“If this is our last night on Earth,” Dean mutters, “I wish you’d brought some women.”

“I don’t see the benefit,” Castiel retorts but he’s teasing.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t.” Dean chuckles, no doubt remembering his attempt to relieve Castiel of his virginity. “So Bobby and Sam are going to catch up with us?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Cas agrees. “In the meantime I suggest you eat something.”

“You brought food?” When Cas indicates a box of waffles and a thermos flask on the table, Dean’s eyes light up. “Cas, my man, you’re not beyond hope yet.”

Castiel smiles, thinking, _yes. I am_.

 

/ / /

 

_They make it as far as Windsor, with the Detroit skyline rising across the river. The meeting point is a fenced off car park near one of the bridges and Dean steers the Impala onto the cracked tarmac in stony silence. _

_Crowley promised Death would approach the other side of the city, far enough to be safe and close enough to prepare the ritual. When he told them the city would be Detroit, Dean tried to convince his brother to stay behind. No use serving Sam up to Lucifer on a platter. His heart wasn’t into it, though, instinct winning over reason. The discussion ended with both of them in the car, heading east and determined not to let each other out of their sights. _

_Of course, there has to be a trap of some kind but knowing they’ll be set up and going anyway has become so much of a routine it’s hard to break the habit. “For all Bobby can tell, the ritual may be genuine. And if they can trap Death … well, that just might give the devil pause._

_The morning’s still fresh, the distant skyscrapers look soft in the blue haze. A gull stalks among the parked cars, worrying a candy wrapper. The bird takes off as the doors of the Impala open and bang shut._

_It’s come down to just Sam, Dean and Castiel. No extra squadron this time. Dean tried to convince Rufus to make them an even number but he refused, saying that the only thing that comes from teaming up with the Winchesters is an early grave. No offence._

_“Early?” Bobby grumbled with a pointed look at the grooves and lines on Rufus’ face. The old hunter shrugged. “It’s a saying.”_

_In the end, Bobby didn’t join them either. He would have, if it had been up to him, but Sam and Dean both asked him to stay behind. The official explanation was their need for a second front but all of them knew they didn't want to lose Bobby or watch it happen. With Death chipping away at their resources, the Winchesters carried on by sheer strength of will. All the time, reports of hurricanes and disease outbreaks fill the papers and there’s hardly any TV program without running news banners on top.  They're grasping at straws by working with Crowley but with the end of days closing in, they’re running out of options fast. _

_Dean opens the car’s trunk, pulling out his shotgun and the duffel that holds everything  on Crowley’s grocery list: ash from a dead tree, bones of a rooster and other ingredients a little harder to procure. _

_Sam keeps his hand close to Ruby’s knife, sheathed at his belt. They all look around the lot, Dean nervously licking his lip, half expecting Lucifer to walk out from behind the rows of parked SUVs. In the end, it’s only Crowley , striding towards them with his hands in the pockets of a black mackintosh._

_They walk around the Impala to meet him, stopping in a line. A few paces across the lot, Crowley stops as well. The way they are contraposed reminds Castiel of the Western movies Dean always falls asleep to and Castiel can’t switch off, fascinated by the hard, plain faces of the men on screen. _

_As Castiel waits next to Sam, he stares at Crowley, trying to read his intentions. He can’t decipher demon thought, no angel ever could. As all creations, demons must have reason, motivation, but staring into their vessels’ heads does as much good as walking into a pit of black smoke. _

_In the end, Dean’s the one to break the silence. “So here we are.”_

_Crowley sighs and in that sound, Castiel hears all he needs to know. Crowley never intended to perform the ritual. “Yes, here we are.”_

_When he takes his right hand out of his coat, he’s holding a gun. It’s an old fashioned model with a long, slender muzzle, pentagram engraved in the handle. The Colt found Crowley like a boomerang. _

_Dean cocks his shotgun the second Crowley moves and levels the barrel at Crowley’s head, knowing all the while it will do no good.  From the corner of his eye, Castiel sees Sam reach for his knife. Clucking his tongue, Crowley swings the gun toward Sam. “Hold it there, Jack.” His voice still sounds casual enough, but there is something in his eyes which fills Castiel with suspicion. He recognises the last piece of the puzzle only when it’s too late._

_“Come on man, we’re over this,” Dean growls. “Gun won’t kill the devil.” _

_“I know,” Crowley says, as he pulls  the trigger and shoots Sam in the heart._

 

/ / /

 

Up on the cliffs, the air is wet with the spray of the breakers crashing against the rock. Seabirds circle the updraft. Castiel has moved out onto the veranda, watching the grey sky with his hands on the rail. Wooden planks creaking under his boots, Dean joins him, carrying a steaming cup in one hand and the thermos flask in the other. When he reaches Castiel’s side, he holds out the cup.

“I know you don’t usually, but you look like you need something to warm you up.”

“Thank you.” Castiel takes the coffee, holds the cup in his hands while Dean drinks from the flask.

“You think it’s stupid, don’t you?” Dean asks.

“Binding Death?”

“Going to Detroit.”

Keeping his eyes on the sky, Castiel follows the flight of a gull swooping above the cliff. “Free will isn’t just a formality, Dean. Even Lucifer doesn’t foresee everything that is going to happen.”

“Let’s hope so.” Leaning his arms on the railing, Dean follows Castiel’s gaze out at the choppy sea. “What about you?” he asks. “Aren’t we keeping you from your God-search?”

“I don’t think there’s anything to search for.”

Dean looks at him sharply but Castiel doesn’t move, the warmth of the stainless steel cup melting into his palms. “Don’t tell me you want to save my faith,” he says softly.

Dean hesitates like he wants to protest but in the end he just takes another sip of coffee. “I hate to see you lose your illusions, is all.”

“Yes. So do I.”

Reaching into his coat’s pocket, Castiel retrieves the pendant he’s carried for the last few months. He keeps it in his hand a little longer, looking down at the miniature effigy, then holds it out for Dean. When he turns, he sees the crease between Dean’s brows and the tight line of his lips. He’s really worried now.

When he takes the amulet from Castiel’s hand, Dean’s gaze slides down to the tarnished metal and his frown deepens. “You know, Sam gave me this …” he begins, stops and turns pale. He jerks his head like he’s shrugging off a fly or an uncomfortable thought. His chest feeling suddenly tight, Castiel reaches out to touch Dean’s elbow. “You want to explain those Poker rules to me again?”

Dean looks up, closing his fist around the pendant. The dull haze that has come to his eyes is gone in an instant.

“Card games, huh?” he asks. “Ever been to a town called Gomorrah?”

 

 

/ / /

 

_Even as Sam falls, Castiel tears the knife from its sheath and lunges at Crowley. He’s fast but the demon still gets his fist around the blade, the knife cutting into his palm and fingers, blood welling. “Sorry, mate,” he mutters with a tight smile. “Maybe next time.” He’s gone before Castiel can even reach for the gun. _

_When Castiel turns, Sam is on the ground and Dean kneels over him, pressing his jacket on Sam’s chest. Still holding the knife with Crowley’s blood dripping from the tip, Cas hurries back to them. _

_“Hold him off,” Dean grinds out, not lifting his head, one hand fisted into Sam’s shirt, the other pressing down on his soaked jacket. _

_“Who?”_

_“The reaper!” Dean yells, voice cracking. As Sam gasps for air, Dean folds in on himself, bowing low enough to almost touch Sam’s forehead. When he snaps upright again Castiel sees the tears in his eyes. “Come on, Sam.”_

_Lowering his body to its knees, Castiel reaches out to touch Sam’s shoulder. While Sam’s warmth soaks through the cotton of his shirt, Castiel feels for the ripped places in his flesh and tries to fix them even though he knows he can’t. Usually part of his grace would have flowed into Sam, sealing him off from the inside. As things are now, Castiel just hovers on the doorstep, unable to cross, unable to change anything. He checks over his shoulder but they are still alone._

_Instead of losing his sense of this world in the flow of light and healing, Castiel only smells gasoline and the swamp-stench of brine, coming up from the river. His knees hurt from the hard concrete underneath. There’s nothing transcendental here and there is no Reaper but Sam Winchester is leaving, all the same. _

_   
_

_ *_

_   
_

_ They place Sam on Bobby’s bed, Dean carefully wiping off the blood-stains his hands left on Sam’s face. To Castiel, not only the room but also the world outside seems dead quiet as if even the possibility of sound has drained from the air. This is one aspect of the days of Armageddon, they told him, not the cries or the pleas, but the silence of the desert where nothing moves, not even time._

_After Sam’s taken care of, Dean sits on a chair by the window and doesn’t move anymore. Castiel waits in the dim hallway, fingertips brushing unconsciously against flaking wallpaper until Bobby finds him. “Give it up, son,” he tells him. “He won’t listen to a word you say.”_

_Castiel stares into the room but the window at his back leaves Dean’s face in shadow. “I understand.”_

_“So what happens now?” Bobby asks. “Satan’s gonna raise Sam?”_

_“No.”_

_There’s a creak of leather as Bobby shifts in his chair. “What do you mean, ‘no’?” _

_“It is how the Colt works,” Castiel explains. “It doesn’t send souls to heaven or hell, it just makes them stop.” _

_It is one of the mysteries the angels are encouraged to overlook. According to God’s plan, there should be only two options when humans reach the allotted end of their lives. The truth is, though, some of them simply disappear like they have never been. _

_“Sam’s gone,” Castiel adds for Bobby’s sake. “There is no soul left to raise.”_

_Almost as an afterthought, Castiel turns to catch the stricken look on Bobby’s face._

_Turning away, Bobby pushes his fist against his mouth as if he needs to hold in a sound by force. Castiel senses the despair coming off him in waves and feels a quick spark of regret. He hasn't realized that Bobby hasn’t pieced it together yet. Hesitating, he places a hand on Bobby’s shoulder._

_Staring into the room and the younger Winchester laid out on the bed, he wonders if Lucifer will go to the trouble of collecting Sam. He might claim Sam’s body but it won’t give him the power he’s after. He would have needed Sam’s soul, like sunlight needs a lens to burn._

_If he wanted to delay Lucifer, Crowley made a clever move. Without question the angels will line up now, eager to take Dean for themselves. And if Michael gets his vessel, Lucifer won’t stand a chance. _

_All things considered, Castiel has an idea how the Colt returned to Crowley’s hands. “I have to go,” Castiel tells Bobby, leaving the growing shadows of Bobby’s house behind._

_   
_

_ *_

_   
_

_ When Castiel returns to the Windsor car-park, the sun’s setting and the lights on the suspension bridge come on with the dusk. The Impala still waits by the exit, road-dust coating its tyres. Castiel has barely set his foot on the tarmac, when another man in a familiar suit appears next to a Chrysler’s grill. _

_Castiel’s shoulders tense up, a sudden burst of Jimmy’s anger fusing with his own, deeper fury. “Zachariah.”_

_“Castiel,” the other angel rejoins heartily. “Good to see you. But, boy, you look awful. Do you take your vitamins?” _

_“You gave Crowley the Colt.” _

_Clasping his hands in front of his chest, Zachariah breaks into smile. “Yes, we did. Quite the sensible fellow, this Crowley. For a demon. When we explained the situation, he fell in line at once. Even went a little creative in the performance.”_

_“He followed your orders?” Castiel asks, fists clenching at his side._

_“I guess he realised he bet on the wrong horse,” Zachariah comes back easily. “A common mistake these days.”_

_“You won’t gain anything from this,” Castiel promises. “Killing Sam will only make Dean fight you more.”_

_Raising his brows, Zachariah looks almost surprised. “Oh, but this wasn’t about Dean at all,” he corrects. “This was about Lucifer.”_

_Castiel frowns, struggling to follow Zachariah's logic. Destroying Sam just to deny Lucifer the joy of wearing his first-choice vessel seems an unnecessary and petty move even for Zachariah. There has to be more to it and knowing his one-time superior, Castiel only has to wait for Zachariah to explain the cunning of his scheme. _

_In the meantime, Castiel’s ignorance seems to amuse the other angel. Tapping the side of his nose, Zachariah elaborates. “Now that we removed his vessel, Lucifer’s days are numbered. Literally.” He grins like he made a good joke but when Castiel fails to react, Zachariah heaves a sigh. _

_“Lucifer,” he explains, “his light, if you pardon the pun, will spread thin. A being as powerful as he, he needs his one vessel to keep himself together or he’ll scatter. Oh, he can burn through minor human shells one by one,” Zachariah added, flapping his hand. “But in the end it’s just a matter of time. Without Sam to give him substance, Lucifer will seep back into the earth and down to the abyss.”_

_Castiel stares at Zachariah without seeing, processing yet another piece of information they withheld from him. The generals pride themselves  on their prudence, keeping the host on a need-to-know basis, but to Castiel it looks like no more than base scheming. A very human course of action. Not that they would see it that way. _

_“Why do you think he needed to convince Sam to let him in?” Zachariah carries on, talking faster in his eagerness to make Castiel see the ingenuity of the great plan. “Because there are rules. To finish Armageddon, Lucifer needs to walk the Earth, and to do that, he needs human collaborators. No, he needs _the_ human link and it must be freely given. Otherwise, so long and thanks for all the fish.”_

_Mistaking Castiel’s silence for disbelief, he laughs. “Yes, the apocalypse comes with an expiration date. Battle needs to be over before midnight or we all turn into pumpkins.”_

_“Why are you telling me this?” Castiel wants to know. At this, Zachariah actually leans forward to grab Castiel’s shoulder. “Because I want you to understand that we will win,” he says, hand squeezing. “Lucifer can’t make his move now. He’s, how do they say, a sitting duck?” Shaking his head like a man who cannot believe his good fortune, Zachariah takes away his hand only to curl it into a fist. “His power’s shrinking and when Michael strikes, he will smite him good and proper.” _

_“When is this deadline?”_

_“A week, a month from now, what does it matter? We have all the advantage we need. As soon as Michael moves into his vessel, Lucifer will burn and fade. Think of the glory! The great overture to our big symphony.”_

_“That’s assuming Dean will consent.” _

_“Oh, he has no reason not to, now, has he?” Zachariah dismisses Castiel’s objection. “It’s not like we’re asking him to kill his brother.”_

_Pushing his hands into his trousers’ pockets, Zachariah pulls his mouth into a sneer, betraying another kind of urgency beneath the glossy good humour. “There has to be a battle, Castiel. It is written. World’s got to go out with a bang before we make it all shiny and new.”_

_“And without the battle?” Castiel asks, suddenly feeling like he could laugh. Uriel might have had the humour, but Castiel knows how to identify irony._

_“Without the battle?” Zachariah echoes in a nonplussed voice. “I guess Lucifer would seep back down under and we would return upstairs waiting for the next merry-go-round. You have to admit that would be one hell of an anti-climax. Pardon my French.” _

_“And earth as is would remain?” Castiel insists. _

_“Well, yes. But who wants that?” Zachariah lets his gaze wander over the parked cars and the harbour cranes in the distance. He takes a deep breath before twisting his face in disgust. “This world is broken, Castiel,” he says. “Now more than ever. We have the chance to remake it. Make it better.” Tilting his head up to the sky, he smiles. “Imagine all the beauty of this planet without humanity’s penchant for destruction. God’s creation purged of sin and strive. Paradise, Castiel. Eden.”_

_Eyes gleaming, he looks at Castiel, obviously expecting praise or some show of enthusiasm. Instead, Castiel leaves him standing and wanders over to the fence of the car-park instead. Hooking his fingers through the wire, he watches the purple evening sky reflected in the river. “What you’re saying doesn’t sound so different from Lucifer’s vision.”_

_“He is an angel,” Zachariah shrugs and joins him, hands clasped behind his back. “A misguided one, yes, but gifted with great foresight. And we won’t erase all these souls. We’ll preserve them, wash them clean, give them a place as close to us as they can get. Don’t worry, we’ll make sure they won’t be troubled by doubt or fear or petty desires.”_

_“They’ll be easy to control, you mean,” Castiel says, thinking of Dean’s attitude about paradise. _

You can take your peace and shove it up your lily-white ass.

_“Is that scorn?” Zachariah asks, surprised. He frowns, a little of his self assurance draining from his fat face. “I can understand how humans are too small-minded to appreciate their salvation, but you, Castiel. Surely you see?”_

_Castiel doesn’t answer, but he sees, all right. It occurs to him that if he had a chance to kill Zachariah here and now, he would do it without a single moment of hesitation or regret. “You didn’t have to kill Sam,” he says softly. “If he had known, he would have held out until Lucifer diminished.“_

_“Please,” Zachariah scoffs. “First chance we gave that boy he ran right at the town where he was destined to sell his soul.”_

_He’s readjusting the knot of his tie and Castiel can tell he’s losing patience with their conversation. “We want you to go back and tell Dean he can have one more day,” Zachariah announces and starts walking away. “We will wait for him here. Morning would be good. It’s such a refreshing time of day.” _

_   
_

/ / /

 

In the run-down men’s room of the restaurant, Castiel takes off his coat and jacket. He undoes the two top buttons of his shirt, leaving his tie in the yellowed sink.

Laying down your clothes isn’t quite the same as laying down your burdens but it’s the most Castiel can do for now. Besides, he wants to look into the mirror and see if anything changed in his reflection. Rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, he wonders when he began to think of this body’s reflection as his.

Looking up, his face seems parted in the middle by the damaged mirror. He runs his finger down one of the cracks, following the hair-fine gap in the glass.

Looking at things, hearing the soft current of people’s thoughts is one way to know them, but to touch allows him to be aware. Connecting on the surface still seems like a curious way to join but it tells Castiel so many things thoughts never do. The ridged grain of wood, the soft texture of fresh sheets, the smooth pressure of running water: Feeling the texture of objects, he pays attention to this world. And, as Castiel has been taught, attention is an act of love.

 

*

 

He finds Dean on the concrete front porch, watching the dirt road and the brown water collecting in the ruts. Up ahead, dark pines rise like a wall. The day’s already fading, temperatures dropping as the clouds turn a darker shade of grey. Dean leans against the restaurant’s wall, his nose a little red with the cold. “If Sam drives the Impala out here I’ll be cleaning mud off her rims for a week,” he says. He’s taken the deck of cards with him, shuffling them to keep his hands busy. He takes a sidelong look at Castiel, raising his eyebrows at the disappearance of the coat. Castiel doesn’t react, staring at the pine wood without speaking.

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” Dean asks, placing the cards on a window-sill. “Come on, you’re even more obscure than usual. If that’s possible.”

“Do you know what day it is?” Castiel returns, meeting Dean’s gaze.

Dean narrows his eyes, answers, “Tuesday, November 15th.”

“No. That was three days ago.”

Dean opens his mouth to say it can’t be, but of course he feels the truth, even though Castiel prevents him from seeing most of it. That same look of confusion returns to his face and like before, Castiel wants to take all this off Dean’s shoulders, to make it easier for him. Only they’re running out of time and it’s not fair to prolong this.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Dean asks but the words barely range above a ragged whisper. Part of him remembers that he doesn’t want to know. Muscles tense on his face before he looks away, scared perhaps of what Castiel’s silence would tell him.

Reaching out, Castiel places his hand on Dean’s shoulder, thumb touching the bit of warm skin above his collar. Dean flinches, his whole body cringing under Castiel’s palm, but he neither knocks Castiel’s arm away nor does he flee.

Castiel feels the memories return, the oblivion he created lifting like a curtain. Dean stumbles, catches himself on Castiel’s shoulder and for a moment they just stand like that, Dean breathing deep and heavy.

“It was better when I didn’t know,” Dean murmurs.

“I know,” Castiel says. Slow, deliberately, he clenches his hand, pulling folds of Dean’s shirt into his fist. He asked for this, asked for one more day of having Dean whole and solid within arm’s reach. It’s the first selfish wish he’s given voice to and Dean granted it, selfless to the last.

He’s held on for long enough now, he knows. But letting go is something he doesn’t know how to do yet.

It’s Dean who breaks contact first, pacing away from Castiel before he leans against the restaurant’s wall. Looking out over the empty cliff-top and the night rolling in from the ocean, Dean slides down the wall until he sits with his hands on his knees.

“Got to tell you,” he says, “I didn’t think it would be like this.”

 

/ / /

 

_After Castiel delivers Zachariah's message, Dean goes outside the house and begins the task of building a funeral pyre. He stays out all night, working alone. As the first light of day pales the sky, Castiel follows him to the bit of woodland at the back of Bobby’s yard. _

_Dean’s picked a spot down close to the brook, piling logs on the gravel bank. Most of the willow-trees have shed their foliage, leaving a yellow froth of leaves on the edge of the shallow water._

_Dean stands with both hands braced on the pyre until Castiel reaches his side. When Dean turns, Castiel notices the dried blood on the front of his denims. He hasn’t washed his hands, either, indifferent to the stained skin and the black rims under his fingernails. He smells of gasoline and stale sweat._

_“Don’t look at me like that,” Dean tells Castiel. “No way this was gonna end any different.” _

You’re wrong,_ Castiel thinks but doesn’t say. At some point, there must have been another way, a chance for these people to live through the pain and be better for it. Be healed, redeemed and free to feel content for once. Otherwise, what would be the point? How could there be any purpose in this waste?_

_Castiel reaches out for the pyre only to pull back his hand before his fingertips can touch the splintered wood. _

_“Promise me something, Cas,” Dean says quietly. “Promise you won’t let them … Don’t let them have this. Don’t let them win.”_

_“I promise,” Castiel says._

/ / /

 

 

They lie down on the same cot Dean has slept on earlier; Dean on his side and Castiel at his back. When Castiel moves to fit himself against him, Dean’s whole body draws taut and Castiel can almost hear him grinding his teeth. This is unfamiliar to Dean, but like before, he doesn’t bolt. Castiel gives him time, aware of all the places where their bodies touch. He can also smell the sea fog in Dean’s hair, the dust of the restaurant on his shirt and a ghost of something clean as rain very close to his skin.

As he breathes softly against the back of Dean’s head, Castiel feels Dean exhale in turn. Some of the tension seeps out from his shoulders and he stretches his legs, denim scratching along Castiel’s pants. Castiel waits a little longer, letting the silence settle all around them before he puts his arms around Dean. Placing one hand on Dean’s chest, he slips the other under Dean’s elbow to rest flat on his stomach. He can feel Dean’s ragged heartbeat under his palm and whispers something Jimmy used to tell his daughter when she couldn’t sleep. _Hush now_.

Dean turns his head, pressing his face into the old blanket and Castiel traces a line above Dean’s heart with his thumb. Dean’s medallion digs into the underside of his arm.

It hurts, knowing how scared Dean is and Castiel never thought regret could be so constant or so bottomless. Closing his eyes, he listens to the far-off roar and crash of the breakers.

Dean shifts his arm, hesitates, then moves to cover Castiel’s hand with his own. When he lets go, he seems to surrender the last of his defences, too, loosing his limbs like he’s ready to sleep. No more waiting. Castiel tightens his arms before opening his eyes.

Most of his power is gone so this will take a while, but he’ll make sure Dean won’t feel a single thing. He’s with him in any way he can be, soothing him, sheltering him as a small part of Castiel’s essence seeps from Jimmy’s body into Dean’s, finding its way under his skin and into his blood. Castiel doesn’t hurry, wrapping around every fibre of Dean’s being until there’s no part of him he doesn’t hold. Then, slowly, he begins to unravel the fabric that holds Dean together, dividing muscle from bone and sinking heat into Dean’s veins so he’ll burn up from the inside. Already he can feel Dean’s skin warm under his palms, rising heat soaking through the layers of his clothes.

The angels destroyed Sam’s soul to deprive Lucifer of his vessel. In turn, Castiel will dissolve Dean’s body, burning Enochian sigils on every molecule before releasing them like bits of ash to the wind. They won’t ever find him this way. It would be like he never existed.

 

** _fin_ **

_20/01/10_

** _Beta by blue_adagio and greeneyes_fan_ **


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